Water’s Edge (A Series of Sharp Edges #1)

12. Ripp

CHAPTER TWELVE

ripp

I t’s only been a few hours since I left Mattie, but memories of her already haunt me. Her soft whimpers and needy moans ring in my ears. Her soft skin still feels like electricity on my fingertips. She’s under my skin now, and not even tearing the flesh from my bones will get her out.

There are questions I need answers to. Even for a creature older than the Earth, some bits of magic remain a mystery. I’m a liminal being, not a seer. I continue deeper into the woods until I finally arrive at the cabin I’ve been searching for. I’ve been here before, but it has been enchanted with magic that keeps it from being found the same way twice. The cabin is made entirely of wood, small and rickety. It looks rundown and abandoned, except for the small stream of smoke rising from the chimney.

The witch opens the door before I even step out into the small clearing. Even though her eyes are white and her long silver hair falls in front of them, I know she sees me. While all mortals can sense my presence, their hackles raise with fear and their hearts pound, they’re still mostly blind to me. Their minds protect them from what they know on a primal level to fear until I force myself upon them to be seen. The witch knows what to look for.

“Are you going to come in, child? Or just stand there letting yourself air out?” She cackles and turns back towards the dark doorway.

I suddenly remember why I usually avoid coming here. I’m not a child to her by any means, but she has never referred to me as anything else. I could show up in my true form, nothing but horror and shadows, and she’d still roll her eyes and pat the mist swirling around me like one would pat the head of a small child. She has the information I need, though, or at least, I hope she does, so I grit my teeth and follow her inside.

The witch’s cabin is like Mattie’s, except any wards she sets would actually work against my kind. Mattie’s are merely mortal trinkets made to give her peace of mind. Like most modern iterations of folklore, the magic of it has been gradually lost over the generations. It probably didn’t help that the smaller minded ones burned everything they couldn’t explain. The few old world witches left have been in hiding for centuries, something I was also accustomed to until recently.

“Tell me, Ripp, do you fall in love with humans often?” She asks, grabbing a screaming kettle from the small stove. Her question catches me off guard, and I stand in stunned silence. She pours tea into a metal mug and stirs it, her eyes closed in thought. “I have seen her in these woods, you know. She goes to the lake and makes offerings to gods she knows nothing of.” I remain quiet, waiting for her to continue.

“You want to know how to keep her.” She nods in confirmation, with no need for my response. I raise an eyebrow, suppressing my urge to yell at her to get on with it, but she senses my annoyance and just chuckles lowly.

“There have been tales, ones that talk of souls being fragmented from sustained emotional trauma. The voids in the soul allow it to fill with dark magic, a curse. It eats at them slowly. Those who are not driven mad by it transform instead. It can be so gradual, their human form gives out before the transformation is complete.” She pauses again, like she had a second thought. “Others are simply born already intertwined with their dark fates.”

“Magic is not light or dark, witch,” I state flatly. Everything is so black and white with humans. They’re quick to put everything into a clearly labeled box and give order to the chaos of nature when it naturally has none.

“Shadows are dark, child.” Her tone is sharp, and if I press her too hard, she’s likely not to give me any answers at all. “Darkness fills all the spots the light can’t reach. I did not say evil. For a being so old, I thought you would know that light and dark do not necessarily correlate to good and evil.”

I take a seat at the small round table that separates the kitchen from the living space. Symbols resembling runes are carved into the ancient wood, and I pick at them agitatedly with one finger. I wonder what it’s supposed to ward off if not me. I try to feign disinterest. “What does that have to do with me?”

“The transformation has already begun. You simply accelerated it. However, Mattie's fate was always to be what she’s becoming.” She shrugs and takes a sip of her tea before taking the seat next to mine. My nose crinkles as the heavy scent of magic and herbs rolls off her.

“Your cryptic bullshit is irritating,” I growl. I didn’t come here to be filled with riddles and messages I’m supposed to decode. The witch readjusts in her chair, turning to face me. The growing unrest inside me paces like an animal stuck in a cage. “What fucking transformation?”

“You came to me, so if you’re not happy with my pace, feel free to look for answers elsewhere.” She clucks her tongue and waves a hand towards the door.

I don’t enjoy being at this hag’s mercy, but fuck, she’s right. If Mattie’s darkness is already spreading, eventually, her light will snuff out. She’ll die anyway, even without my presence in her short life. “How do I save her?”

“Ah, so there is some attachment to this human. Curious.” The witch chuckles, and my patience is ready to snap. “There is no way to reverse the damage to her soul. She’s lived a hard life, been in these woods for too long, experienced horrors at an age no person should. It’s best to leave her be. Let her enjoy what she has left.”

Nothing about Mattie leads me to believe she’s enjoying anything in her current life. Even after killing that man and sinking him out in the lake, she still screamed like it was she who was dying. The fire in her eyes blazed only as she held that knife to my throat—and when she screamed out in pleasure beneath me.

“But since the transformation has already started, there is a ritual to complete it.” She sets down her cup and sighs, not giving any signs of elaborating further. This is going nowhere.

“Witch,” I grumble, dragging my hands down the sides of my face. I don’t enjoy repeating myself, but I ask again, “What is she changing into?”

“The ritual is not without considerable risk. You could easily kill her before you finish,” she says, avoiding the question again entirely. She stares into her cup like it’s going to give out the answer I’m demanding instead.

“That’s not what I asked.” My words come out clipped and low. She gives a noncommittal hum. Questions buzz around in my mind like a swarm of bees, so I try a different approach. “How do I complete the ritual without killing her?”

A grin spreads across the witch’s wrinkled face. Her eyes meet mine, and inky orbs of white stare into me, meeting the gaze of my true form hiding behind its prison of flesh. “You sacrifice a piece of yourself.”

“Done,” I growl. Anything. I would give anything to not have to walk this existence for another day without her. Even if I can’t save her, I’ll spend the rest of eternity searching for her soul in another container.

“Not so fast, child. You must cleave a part of your own soul to fuse it with hers.” Then, she laughs so loudly, it echoes off the walls of the tiny cabin. The obnoxious sound hammers into my ears as it bounces around the room. Of course. There’s always a catch, and it’s my soul—a soul I don’t fucking have.

“Witch,” I roar, losing control of my temper. I stand, towering over her. My body flushes with fury. “You know damn well my kind doesn’t have a soul to give.”

“A soulless being who must consume souls to fill space in themselves,” she says, no longer laughing. Her voice is infuriatingly calm, even as she tells me something about myself I’m already well aware of.

“Is that supposed to be some kind of riddle?” I spit out. My human body trembles from the pressure of my magic raging inside me. My hands curl into fists, and I feel the skin stretch around each knuckle.

“Perhaps.” She shrugs and stands to turn back to the pot simmering on her stove. Her voice drifts out behind her. “I trust you’ll sort it out.”

I slam my fists on the table, causing the dishes and trinkets to rattle. I stand and start to storm my way to the door. “Your answers are infuriatingly vague.”

“Or maybe,” she pauses and stirs the contents of the pot as it bubbles up with a crackling noise, “you already possess something equivalent. The magic of destroying a soul is not so much different from creating one.”